The Edge of Intensity

Step into a pair of waders and battle bass off the rocks of southeast Ireland. We met Allan Starr at the pier each morning before the hotel restaurant opened to offer coffee to early risers.

But that’s the sacrifice if you want to make the long runs from San Cristobal in the Galapagos Islands as San Cristobal represents the nearest landmass to the best marlin fishing grounds. Our headings changed daily, which varied the arrival times from one-and-a-half to nearly three hours.

All the fishing signs appeared to be favorable: Clean water, good color and lots of marine life. Right off the bat, a striped marlin just shy of 200 pounds took a hookless lure on a short rigger. We dropped back a horse ballyhoo and the marlin smelled it, lit up like a Las Vegas marquee, and switched right to it. I set the hook on my 50-pound standup tackle and the jousting began. The fish bolted above the surface, shaking its head furiously. After more jumps and a series of greyhounding leaps perpendicular to the stern of the boat, I finally started to gain line.

Starr masterfully maneuvered the boat, and told the crew to wait until his signal before releasing the fish. As the marlin neared the boat, my mind flashed to some 30 years ago when I’d fought a blue marlin in the Bahamas with Starr also on the bridge that day. After the crew immediately released it, I joked that the only pictures of that fight would be little specks on the horizon. Perhaps he recalled that as well, since on this occasion he made sure we could snap plenty of boat-side images before the striped marlin swam away.

We fished lures with hooks on the riggers and hookless lures short so we could utilize switch baits if a fish came close to the boat.

Dead bait isn’t readily available hereabouts and you won’t find a bait and tackle shop locally, so Starr and his mates started gathering ballyhoo a My arms shake with unrefined adrenaline as I make that first cast out into the tumbling, foaming water in front of me. I’m a fisherman all my life, and still conditions like this manage to reduce me to a quivering pulp of initial uselessness. I’m hoping that a few calming casts will bring me back to normal.

A rapidly flooding tide seductively creeps around the rock upon which I’m perched, somewhat precariously I might add. Within easy casting range I spy a number of inviting-looking rocky gullies where I know a bass or two should be hunting down unfortunate prey. It’s a matter of weighing up just how long I can stay on “my” rock before my waders become useless and I have to swim back to shore.

But what would an angler be if he didn’t sometimes go and push his luck? I can feel the presence of bass tingling down my spine, providing an almost spiritual experience. Right at that moment, my lure stops dead from the powerful hit of a bass, and like all species that like to hunt around shallow, rocky bays, it knows just where to run. An express delivery of the gears upon my hooked fish is required to turn it toward me.

Nothing I know of in European sea fishing beats that first, confirmed glimpse of the silver, shimmering flanks of a bass knifing toward outstretched hands. I work it to me and perform a careful unhooking of the lure and a quick, admiring gaze before gently slipping the predator back into the rhythmical ocean.

Now for my swim back to shore ...